Artillery of Lies

by Derek Robinson

  Freddy said, “Tell uncle.”

  “Two tables become empty, at the same time,” Luis said. “I say, ‘Quick, grab that table.’ She wants to know what’s wrong with the other table. I say, ‘Who the hell cares? A table is a table! What d’you want? An illustrated prospectus?’ By the time she makes up her mind both tables are taken. Both!”

  Julie, in a voice like slowly tearing paper, said, “I’m happy to stand.”

  “You see what I have to live with? Nothing is ever right first time with this woman. Take a bus, she wants to know why you don’t take a taxi. Take a taxi, she—”

  “Listen, dummy, if you want to sit, then sit! It’s your stupid life and get this: nobody has to live with anybody.”

  “No? No?” Luis’s forefinger began stabbing accusingly. “So who was chasing who in Lisbon? You’re the great memory. Try and remember that.”

  “Chasing whom,” Freddy suggested, but it was wasted.

  “Chasing? Where d’you get this chasing? I was hunting the silly bastard,” she explained to Freddy. “I was going to kill him. Pity I didn’t.” Several nearby drinkers had begun to take an interest. Freddy smiled hugely, as if it were all just a joke. Nobody was fooled.

  “She wanted to marry me. You wanted to get your female hooks into me, didn’t you?”

  “You keep pointing that dirty digit and I’ll break it off, so help me God.”

  “Now I’m puzzled,” Freddy said, working his smile-muscles hard. “I thought you were already married?”

  “Sure. That’s what Luis can’t stand. Drives him wild to think he can’t have everything he lays his horny hands on. Jealous.”

  “Me? Jealous of your alcoholic hack of a husband? Spends his life sitting in hotel rooms making up lies about the war?”

  “And what the hell d’you think you’re doing?”

  “Luis works for the BBC,” Freddy told the listening drinkers.

  “That a fact?” one man said. “There’s a bloke over there who’s in the BBC. Him in the red scarf. Jimmy somebody.”

  “Good heavens!” Luis said. “Fancy finding old Jimmy in here!” He took his beer and set off through the crowd.

  Freddy and Julie looked at each other for several moments. His smile had gone but she was still pink with anger. “Oh well,” Freddy said. “Maybe he’ll like Liverpool.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

  He took her arm and they moved to a more private corner. “This isn’t easy for you, is it? He seems determined to find fault everywhere. The peculiar part about it is that his work is so bloody brilliant. That’s not just what we think, the other side says so too, they can’t get enough of it, Madrid’s given him another bonus. I mean, you’d think that would make him happy, but …”

  “Have you told him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said nothing about the bonus. Began talking about the Civil War. Told me the only party he could support was the royalists because he was a descendant of the ancient kings of Spain.”

  “That’s garbage.”

  Freddy nodded. “But if it makes him happy, who cares? Where is he now, anyway?”

  Luis was talking to Jimmy somebody.

  “You work for the BBC, ja?” he said.

  “That’s right. I’m a driver.”

  “That is very interesting. Would you like to earn five pounds? I am a captain stormtrooper in the Adolf Hitler division of the SS and I want to buy some big secrets.”

  “Fancy that,” said Jimmy.

  “Can you get me some big secrets? About five pounds’ worth.”

  Jimmy drank some beer and studied Luis through the glass. “You don’t look big enough to be a Nazi stormtrooper,” he said.

  “All right then, ten pounds,” Luis said. “Verdammter Engländer!”

  “Tell you what,” Jimmy said. “You stay here and I’ll see what I can lay my hands on.” He was soon lost in the crowd.

  Freddy Garcia said to Julie, “Perhaps if we gave him another medal … I might be able to wangle a George Cross for him. D’you think that would make him feel any better?”

  “Forget it, Freddy.”

  “You’re right, he’d probably want to know why it wasn’t a knighthood. Well, he can’t have a knighthood and that’s that.”

  “Forget knighthoods. Forget anything to do with patriotism. Luis gets no kick out of patriotism. It’s not his style.”

  Freddy frowned. He swirled his beer until it came dangerously near the top. “What a strange fellow he is,” he said.

  Luis had drifted through the drinkers until he came to a man who looked like a caricature of a hunting squire. He wore faded, baggy tweeds and he had a powerful, hooked nose above a cavalry mustache that was turning silver at the ends. A copy of The Times poked out of a jacket pocket, and he was drinking beer from his own engraved pewter tankard. A spaniel sat at his heels. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” Luis asked him.

  The man examined him unhurriedly while he thought about the question. “As a matter of fact I do,” he said. His voice was a courteous growl.

  “Das ist gut. Allow me to introduce myself. I am SS-Sturm-bannführer von Rundstedt.” Luis clicked his heels.

  “Are you, indeed? I’m Colonel Plunket. Retired, of course.” They shook hands. “According to my newspaper von Rundstedt is a field-marshal and he’s in France.”

  “A dodge.” Luis tapped the side of his nose. “To deceive the British Secret Service. Now then: you look like a chap who knows his way about. Where can I find the Allied Order of Battle?”

  “My goodness,” Plunket said. “That’s a tall order.”

  Luis edged closer. “You won’t be the loser,” he said, and nudged his elbow. “I’ve got fifty gold sovereigns sewn into my underpants.”

  “Have you, by God?” Plunket finished his beer. “How frightfully resourceful … Look, old chap, you wait here and I’ll go and get the … um … Order of Battle. Come on, dog.”

  Freddy Garcia, standing on tiptoe, saw some of this encounter. “He seems to be enjoying himself,” he told Julie. “Maybe he just needs company. It’s too quiet up at the house.”

  “I’d certainly like some freedom. Being in Rackham Towers is like being in solitary at the country club. Why don’t you let us loose? We’re not going to run off and join the gypsies.”

  “Wish I could, old girl. My hands are tied.”

  She took one hand and gently shook it. “Gosh,” she said. “So they are.”

  “Achtung! Achtung!” Luis said, smiling warmly at a gloomy man in the uniform of a Home Guard sergeant. “I am the official representative of the Luftwaffe in the south of England and I wish to purchase a Spitfire.”

  “Get fucked,” the sergeant said.

  “May I buy you a drink?”

  “Pint of mild, Fred!” the sergeant shouted. “This kraut’s paying.” Several other Home Guards turned and stared.

  “Drinks for all these brave Tommies too,” Luis told the barman. “How much is a torpedo?” he asked a passing sailor. “Have a drink. I need secrets. The Fuehrer pays top prices. Drinks for everyone! We are all in this war together, ja?”

  Freddy and Julie had found seats. “Can you still see him?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a couple of men outside. He won’t wander off.” Their heads were close together, their voices low.

  “You’re really married to this job, Freddy.”

  “Oh, well. It’s a big job. And my other marriage is sort of past-tense now.”

  “Mine too. Not that it was ever a stunning success. I guess I married Harry because my parents didn’t like him as much as I did. I sometimes wonder if I was really in love, or just in love with the idea of being in love. I was only a kid, what did I know about anything? Harry was a big-shot journalist and that was very romantic, or so I thought. You know: always at the center of the action, making the headlines. But Harry wasn’t romantic. Passionate about news, sure. And ready for a roll
in the hay once in a while, although if the phone rang, then step aside. You don’t know what marriage to a journalist is like until you’ve experienced the thrill of lying underneath him while he talks to his editor a thousand miles away and you can feel his interest in you steadily shrinking in proportion to his growing enthusiasm for his next scoop.” Freddy heard a savage sadness in her voice. He reached for her hand. “I’ve got no right to complain,” she said. “I knew what I was doing. No, dammit, that’s not true. I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was doing.”

  They were completely hidden by the crowd. Freddy put his arm round her shoulders and whispered, “You may think your love-life is none of my business but believe me it is. Eldorado and his network are developing into something really crucial. Could save thousands of lives. Maybe tens of thousands. Luis is worth a battleship. Two battleships.”

  “I’ll see your battleships,” she murmured, “and raise you a brigade of tanks.”

  “I’m serious. Luis has got to be kept happy. I can’t afford to let him get depressed. He might go off the boil. You can help. You understand him.”

  “Do I? He’s impossible.”

  “He’s certainly difficult. The question is …” Freddy hesitated for a moment, “… do you love each other?”

  Julie hunched her shoulders, and Freddy squeezed her arm reassuringly. Suddenly the pub seemed to be full of policemen. There was much shouting; a table went over and glasses broke; and Luis was being frog-marched through the drinkers, shouting “Donner und Blitzen! I demand to see the German consul!” The crowd fell back, and Luis, held by two constables, stared down at Freddy and Julie. “Treacherous bastard,” he said with great feeling.

  “Is this the man you came here with, sir?” a police inspector asked Luis.

  “Public enemy number umpteen,” Luis said. “Take him out and shoot him.”

  “I’ll explain all this outside,” Freddy told the inspector. But before they could leave, the barman had a drinks bill for three pounds two shillings and twopence that he wanted someone to pay. Freddy gave him a fiver and told him to keep the change.

  *

  The Heinkel 59 touched down on the black water and her floats carved a pair of long, creamy wakes. It was four in the morning. The seaplane had taken off from Brest, on the northwest tip of France, at midnight. She was a big, strong machine, a biplane with twin engines, designed to rescue German aircrew from the sea, so she had plenty of room for four Abwehr agents from Madrid and their four suitcases.

  All had dozed (and Ferenc Tekeli had slept) during the flight, but they came wide-awake at the jolt and the sudden vibrant rush of water. In half a minute it had slackened almost to nothing. The pilot taxied softly and gently, the engines throttled back to a dull throb, and it was possible to feel the slight heave and dip of a swell. “Get ready,” a crewman said to the agents. He began to unlock a door.

  They went ashore in a large rubber dinghy. Leaving the Heinkel should have been easy: they had practiced it several times; it was just a matter of climbing down a ladder, reaching one of the massive floats, and stepping into the dinghy. But Laszlo Martini’s legs were stiff. Getting into the boat, he stumbled and trod on Stephanie Schmidt. She cried out in pain. “Move over, can’t you?” Laszlo said angrily.

  “I’m in the right place, you stupid fool,” she hissed.

  “What’s up?” Docherty asked.

  “Quiet, quiet,” the crewman said softly.

  “It’s all very well for you,” Stephanie grumbled.

  Ferenc was the last to get in. “My goodness, it’s cold, isn’t it?” he said. “And dark.” The moon was down; there was no horizon; everything was black on black. “Who’s got the brandy?” he asked.

  “Start paddling,” the crewman whispered.

  “What?” Laszlo’s ears had not recovered from hours of engine-roar. “Who’s that?” he said. The crewman thrust a paddle toward him and banged his wrist. “Sweet Jesus!” Laszlo cried.

  “Paddle, for God’s sake,” the crewman whispered.

  “You broke my arm,” Laszlo accused.

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach the shore. At the end the crewman jumped over the side and dragged the dinghy on to the sand, so they stepped ashore with dry feet. Without a word the crewman shoved off and climbed in. The dinghy disappeared.

  “Welcome to Ireland,” Docherty said. “Peaceful, isn’t it?”

  They walked inland a long way until they found a road. Stephanie was already tired from carrying her suitcase, so they stopped for a rest. “I thought Ireland was neutral,” Ferenc said. “I expected to see lots of lights. There isn’t a single, solitary light to be seen. Anyone want some chocolate?”

  “This is the west coast of Ireland,” Docherty said. “Hardly anybody lives here, and they’re all in their beds now, aren’t they?”

  “Bloody radio.” Laszlo rubbed his wrist. “Weighs a ton.”

  “The west coast,” Stephanie said. “That’s the left-hand side, isn’t it?”

  “I could do with some breakfast,” Ferenc said through his chocolate. “What’s the chance of getting some breakfast soon?”

  “I’m not carrying this bastard suitcase all the way to Liverpool,” Laszlo said. “What do they take me for? A laborer?”

  “Give it to me,” Stephanie said. “I’ll be happy to serve the Fatherland twice over, if I can.”

  This was so painfully heroic that it silenced them, and they set off again, with Laszlo still carrying his case. But they had walked only a short distance when a vehicle came along the road and stopped. “You’re a long way from anywhere,” the driver said.

  “Our car broke down a couple of miles back,” Docherty said. “Could you give us a lift, maybe?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’ll go where you’re going.”

  “Is that so? Well, I’m going to the Luftwaffe seaplane base at Brest, if that’s any use to you.”

  It took Docherty about five seconds to realize what had happened, and he laughed. The others reacted according to character. Ferenc was puzzled, but pleased to know that breakfast was not far away. Laszlo was angry because he had been tricked and made to look a fool, or so he thought. Stephanie simply didn’t understand, even when Richard Fischer (who was driving) explained. “It’s just a rehearsal, Stephie,” he said. “A dry run.”

  “Then where have we been?”

  “Nowhere. Out into the Atlantic and back.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. We might as well have stayed here. What’s the point?”

  “The point was to make you think you were in Ireland.”

  “But we were bound to find out. They don’t even speak the same language.”

  “Shut up, you female idiot,” Laszlo snarled.

  “You kicked me,” Stephanie said. “He kicked me,” she told Fischer, but Fischer was not interested. “Next time you kick me,” she warned Laszlo, “I’ll kick you back. Twice.”

  After breakfast at the seaplane base, Fischer told them to keep their mouths shut while they were in the rubber dinghy. “Sound carries a long way across water,” he said. “I heard every word you said. Ireland’s neutral but there is still smuggling. Suppose I’d been an Irish coastguard? You’d all be in an Irish jail by now. What have you got to stay to that?”

  Nobody had anything to say.

  “Get plenty of sleep,” Fischer advised. “Tonight we’re really sending you into Ireland.”

  Christian was dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time with no thought for his supposed limp, when he suddenly lost confidence, turned, and hurried back to his office. He stared at the colored cards pinned to the walls and his confidence returned. He had been right. It was all there. This time he unpinned a dozen cards and took them with him.

  Oster already had a visitor: Domenik. Nevertheless he was pleased to see Christian. “Try it out on the Commodore, Stefan,” he said genially. Christian wasn’t interested in Domenik’s jokes but he had no choice. He forced himsel
f to be patient.

  “Question,” Domenik said. “How much does it cost to become a U-boat captain?”

  “Don’t know. How much?”

  “How much have you got?”

  Christian shuffled his squares of cardboard while they watched him. “Is that it?” he asked. “That’s it,” Oster said.

  “I see.”

  “That means he doesn’t see,” Oster said.

  “It’s all about U-boat losses,” Domenik said. “There’s a certain lack of volunteers. If you want the job, it’s yours. Get it? That’s what the joke is about.”

  “Oh.”

  “Try him with the air-raid joke,” Oster suggested.

  “You are in the middle of a one-thousand-bomber raid. Huge bombs are exploding all around. The city is an inferno. What, according to the official advice, should you do?”

  Christian shrugged.

  Domenik said, “Place a paper bag over your head and walk, do not run, to the nearest bunker.”

  “Why not run?” Oster asked immediately.

  “You don’t want to start a panic, do you?” Domenik said. They both laughed.

  “Very good,” Christian said. “Most amusing. I have something you ought to see—”

  “Tell him the one about the eighteen-franc note,” Oster said.

  “Man walks into a bar …” Domenik began.

  “It’s Garlic,” Christian said very firmly. “He’s the joker in the pack. It’s all here.”

  “Thank you, Stefan,” Oster said. “We’ll have lunch, yes?” Domenik smiled and left. “Garlic,” Oster said. “Show me.”

  “You have to take a long broad view. Each individual report could be explained away, but …” Christian was spreading his colored cards on Oster’s desk. “It’s what happens when you relate Garlic’s work with the stuff coming from elsewhere that gives the game away.”

  “Which color is Garlic?”

  “Green. For instance, look at last September’s report, sir. All that stuff about convoys leaving the Clyde and so on. As you know, the details turned out to be wrong.”

  “Not necessarily Garlic’s fault. The British could have changed the sailing orders after the convoys left.”

  “It’s possible, I agree. Our friends in Naval Intelligence were not impressed, though, were they? However, that’s not my point, sir. My point is that Garlic couldn’t have been anywhere near Glasgow or the Clyde last September, as he and every other medical student at Glasgow University had already been transferred to Newcastle. Why? Because three large unexploded bombs had been found next to the medical school. Six weeks the students were away. It was reported in the English newspapers. The bomb-disposal officer was given a medal.” Christian gave Oster a cutting of the story. “I must have been blind to have missed it for so long,” he said.